


Eyes Like Mine

by McNaBir



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Alcohol, Animal Death, Aromantic, Beating, Blood, Blood and Violence, Drinking, Drugged Sex, Gen, Gore, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Killing, Major Character Injury, Mild Sexual Content, Nuka-World Amusement Park (Fallout), Origin Story, Rape/Non-con Elements, References to Drugs, The Institute (Fallout), The Railroad (Fallout)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:35:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28470978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McNaBir/pseuds/McNaBir
Summary: Designation: X3-21.Occupation: Ruthless Institute Courser.But for how long?After existing for twelve years under the thumb of the Institute, X3-21 escapes into the Commonwealth; a rogue Courser with no objective but what he makes for himself, and finds himself unexpectedly leading hundreds of blood-thirsty raiders in the dilapidated ruins of an old Pre-War amusement park.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Thanks for giving my fic a view! This is a story I've been writing on my free time for a while. I'm hoping to post a new chapter weekly, sometimes sooner, sometimes later. Also, please be warned that this story is mainly from the point-of-view of an Institute Courser, as well as a few extra characters who areless-than-morally-upstanding, so there will be several topics that might not be appropriate for some readers, such as torture, slavery, rape, and a lot of very bloody gore. Read at your own risk!
Kudos: 9





	1. The End Begins

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this is the same character as in my other work, _Viper_ , however this begins way before he meets Pickman. Look forward to _Viper_ being revamped, as well!

It was about 1800 when the end began.

The hour where no one was expecting anything bad to happen, though it was difficult to predict when tragedy would actually strike. Men and women would probably be making their nightly meals or reading off daily reports. If there were kids, they would most likely be settling down for the night or waiting to eat. Birds chirped in nearby trees, and the sun began to dip behind the desolate city, beyond the skyscrapers that seemed to no longer scrape at the sky. Somewhere, there was the distant patter of gunfire, and the whining bark of a laser rifle.

It didn't concern X3-21, where he crouched in the alleyway, watching the old building's rusted iron door from across the street. From the outside, it looked like any other dilapidated structure in the irradiated ruins of what used to be Boston. It was inside where their secrets were kept. Agents of the organization called the Railroad used the old place to hide their synths and rewire their memories. It was rather inconvenient that they corrupted so many of the Institute's assets, but X3-21 knew that it was about to cease indefinitely.

Slipping up the sleeve on his black armored coat, he pressed his thumb into the white plastic strapped to his wrist, sending out a light crackle of static.

"X3-21 requesting status of Courser X6-88," he muttered into the device, keeping his voice low and level and his ears open to any odd sounds.

" _X6-88_ ," his wrist hissed after a moment. " _Stationed north of Railroad Safehouse, designation_ Herkimer _. No assets in sight. No Wicks in sight._ "

X3-21 took another look at the door and the surrounding road, only to find nothing. It wasn't uncommon for it to be this quiet, yet the longer they waited, the higher the chance they would be seen. It could throw the entire mission to the wind, which was something they couldn't afford to do.

No Courser could afford to fail.

If you failed, you were shut down. Killed. Reset.

No, X3-21 couldn't afford to fail the Institute.

He unconsciously shivered and pressed another button.

"X3-21 requesting status of Coursers Z2-47 and Z6-06," he said.

" _Z2-47 and Z6-06_ ," Z2's voice crackled through the speaker. " _Currently stationed outside Railroad Safehouse, designation_ Switchboard _. No assets in sight. Two Wicks sighted within the building, second floor_."

X3 thought for a moment. It was already dangerous having two enemies nearby, but having them on the second floor was a clear advantage in their favor. They could easily spot two Coursers and several Decoms, which were gen 1 and gen 2 synths, advancing on their location. He almost felt the compulsion to sigh or growl or groan, but the notion quickly passed as he pressed the button once more.

"Z6-06, are you carrying a rifle?" He asked.

" _Affirmative_ ," Z6 replied in a heartbeat.

"Take out the WHC's, Z2-47, advance from the rear."

" _Copy._ "

X3 leaned back slightly on his haunches as he checked the charges in his laser pistol for the eighth time. Then he checked the time, which was 1756, four minutes from the exact time they would launch the assault against the Railroad. In four minutes their quarry would lie dead and all of their escaped assets would be safely back inside the Institute, where they would be reset and reprogrammed. The Coursers would watch, of course, as the synths' very being was ripped from them, crying and screaming, just to remind the elite force just exactly who they were and where they stood. They were Coursers, robots, synthetic humans. They simply obeyed orders and nothing more or less.

Although, he tried to keep those specific memories out of his carefully tuned mind. Right now wasn’t the time to be thinking about what would eventually happen to any rogue assets they might come across and capture.

Two minutes. X3-21 rose back to his feet and flicked off the safety on his pistol as he peered around once more for any sign of the enemy. With nothing in sight, he stepped out of the alleyway and began approaching the nearest door of the warehouse. He held down another button on his device, which would connect him back to X6-88.

"X6-88," he said and stuck a charge to the handle on the door and set it. "Begin."

" _Copy, X3-21_ ," his wrist said, and suddenly there was an explosion on the other side of the building. X3 backed away and detonated the charge, completely blowing the door inward with another sharp explosion.

1800, the hour when four Railroad safe houses would be laid to waste in the blink of an eye. Some might escape, but most would have no chance as their homes were surrounded and taken with a level of precision and ruthlessness only fully trained Institute Coursers could achieve.

X3-21 found very little resistance as he traversed the building. The inside was like a labyrinth of shelves and iron racks, but open enough to see the light shining from the topmost windows. Turrets quickly aimed and fired at him from the leveled racks, but quick and precise laser fire stopped their volleys in only seconds, leaving the Courser unharmed. There were terrified screams coming from the west end of the place, but he ignored it and made his way through the maze, finding several rooms tucked away where beds or bookshelves were. He even found an armory, with weapons stacked upon shelves and several cases of ammunition sitting nearby. It was a major design flaw; keeping all of your munitions in one place meant you had nothing elsewhere and no backups to aid you in battle. What if, say, a Courser were to duck next to the door and lie in wait for everyone to come running to arm themselves?

X3-21 almost held his breath as the shouts and screams grew closer, no doubt from several agents running blind away from the one thing they feared most. What they didn't know was that any good strategy incorporated cooperativeness, and as one Courser flushed them through the maze toward their guns, the other was ready for them to walk into their graves blind.

As the first two bolted into the room, X3-21 opened fire and dropped them in seconds before turning toward the next three that had abruptly halted in the hallway outside. The leading two didn't have any idea what they'd walked into before their corpses crumpled to the floor and their skulls bled from the precise laser that bore through them. The third had been momentarily lucky, since the shot had gone wide and through his cheek instead of his brain, making him fall but stay alive as he scrambled to regain his footing.

He didn't get the chance as another charge was sent through the back of his head with a coldness that would make most seasoned killers shiver in their boots and run the other way.

"Quick, back the other way!" Someone screamed, the fear in their voice making their tone strained. "There's two Coursers!"

X3-21 leapt in the direction that the voices had come from and found a sea of backs to him as several people began turning to escape. There were a few facing him, guns in their hands, but he ignored them as he began methodically aiming, shooting, and dropping everyone that fell into his sights. At one point he felt a bullet catch on his ballistic armor, then another that shattered one of the plates in the armor that extended down his leg. It didn't hurt, but felt as though it was more a solid punch than the impact of a bullet.

"It's not going down!" Someone shouted frantically.

"Shoot its head!"

X3 almost would have felt annoyed, had he not been so focused on the task at hand as the voice drew his attention, automatically causing him to aim and shoot one of the gunmen dead. It had only been moments later that everyone who had fled from him was now dead and the two others with guns were currently busy with X6-88, who had come up from the back.

X3-21 took a moment to regard his wrist again as he pulled up a small map with three red dots on it, and two black ones. Their escaped assets were nearby.

He took his time stepping over and around the bodies that blocked the hallway until he made it to the Courser's side where he was standing by the remaining WHC’s he’d put down. His armor was scuffed and torn with bullet impacts and grazes, but other than the damage to his coat he appeared to be alright.

"There are two assets to the south and one to the east," X3 said.

"I'll retrieve the asset to the east," X6 told him, then turned and began to walk off.

Almost instantly X3 noticed the blood that had been leaking from the other courser's shoulder blade, and he reached out and stopped him.

"You're hit," he said flatly, though anyone observing might have seen the slight tenseness to his eyebrows that would betray his concern.

"It isn't deep," X6-88 explained, and pulled away. "Shrapnel. It hit the plate and went between two others."

X3 almost frowned, but he merely nodded once and turned toward the south to collect the two assets who would be hiding there, blocking out his thoughts of X6’s injury. It was a superficial wound. Nothing serious.

As he made his way toward this goal he replaced the cartridge in his laser pistol with a full one, then stepped into the room and found an asset cowering against the back wall, tears streaming from her eyes. She was trembling, muttering prayers or perhaps begging for her life. X3 didn't care to ponder which as he calmly walked over to her, his gun relaxed.

"Designation S12-04, initiate recall code--"

A sudden sharp pain exploded through his lower leg, causing him to stumble and almost fall. A quick glance down told him that he'd been shot just below his armorline, and that his leg was bleeding severely. Another glance brought the other synth into his field of vision, a male that was about six or so inches taller than him and armed with a revolver. X3-21 didn't think twice about aiming his pistol and ending the asset's existence with two quick shots to the chest. The other, who was still petrified and sobbing, didn't budge as he came over and uttered her recall code, sending her into quiet passivity. He took a moment to look at her tear-streaked face as her dull eyes stared blankly at the floor. Her cheeks were red and her limbs were pale, and her hair, which had been long at one point, was cut short in an attempt to disguise herself. It hadn't helped, of course, since each synth was marked with a tracker and stamped with a serial number. She was S12-04, a synthetic human, Institute property. She had no more say in her life than any other synth, Coursers included.

X3-21's mouth twitched slightly as he stood her up and proceeded to grab up the corpse of the other one onto his shoulder. He holstered his laser pistol for a moment, and pressed a button on his Cip-Boy.

"Courser X3-21 to all other Coursers initiating plan _Telos_ , return to the Institute with all assets upon mission completion. I expect everyone at relay Decon within five minutes," he said, then took the arm of the pacified synth, turned a dial on his device and pressed two more buttons, which instantly made an automated voice begin speaking.

" _Standby for relay in three… two… one…_ "

The jolt of electricity that passed through him was normal, and he didn't flinch as everything suddenly changed from the harsh wastes around him to the glaring white lights of the Institute.


	2. The Institute

X3-21 waited for a moment in the Decon-Point as several nozzles studding the walls suddenly released a cloud of cleansing air, instantly ridding their bodies of radiation and any other bacteria that they could have picked up on the surface. Once the cloud had dissipated, the glass door slid open and he pushed the blank synth out first and ordered her to return to the lead scientist of the Synth Retention Bureau, which she immediately complied and began shuffling off as he stayed behind and waited for the others. He even took off his dark aviator sunglasses that he usually wore, revealing the glowing orange lenses underneath. It wasn't a common thing for synths to have, well, synthetic eyes, but he had been made incorrectly, and to spare his life he had been fitted with new eyes to replace the previous blinded ones. He'd come into the world with no sight and soon found that his eyes were the sharpest of all synths.

Only minutes passed before X6-88 stepped out with a blank synth and ordered it also to the SRB. Other than the shrapnel incident, the Courser was unharmed and unphased.

X6-88 regarded his superior for a moment, with the slightest hint of a raised brow.

"You killed another one," he said tepidly. It wasn't a question, but more of a statement that he seemed to be used to saying. 

X3-21 glanced at the body on his shoulder and finally noticed just how much of its blood was seeping onto him and coating his armor. It wouldn't stain, but it was still an inconvenience. He would have to have it cleaned and repaired before going back on field missions.

"It should not have fought back," he stated monotonously.

"Is that why your leg is shot?" X6 asked.

"Yes," he replied, and felt a sudden spark of annoyance, which he stifled down within himself. His leg injury would also put him out of commission for a day at least.

"I can take the asset to the SRB," the younger synth said suddenly, and reached for the dead rogue on his shoulder, which he took and shifted to his own. The relief was quick as X3 felt his injured leg relax. He would have easily carried the corpse in himself, but if X6-88 was willing, he knew he couldn't suade him away.

"I'll wait here for the others."

X6 nodded to him, then turned and walked out of the decontamination room into the SRB, where the assets would be repaired and reset, or simply decommissioned like he'd seen hundreds subjected to before. A lot of them often screamed once repaired, but became passive once again after having their memory-drives wiped clean. It was something every Courser was used to seeing. A cold reminder of exactly who they were loyal to, and a threat to never dare deviate.

X3-21 snapped out of his thoughts when he heard several static-shock-like noises from inside the decon-chambers that were the usual for someone being relayed. Soon after came the spraying of nozzles and finally the glass doors sliding away as the Coursers assigned to plan _Telos_ stepped out into the room with him.

To anyone with an untrained eye, it looked as if they had failed completely in their mission: Z2-47 had a nasty gash across the left half of his face, leaking blood down his chin to his throat, his blue eyes standing out sharply against the contrasting color. Z6-06 was scuffed and hauling two pacified assets behind him, both of which appeared alive albeit damaged and also leaking blood everywhere. It was filthy business, and it didn’t help that X4-18 and Z3-09 were covered in mud from head to toe, which X3 couldn’t fathom how they both managed that being that they had different missions in different parts of the Commonwealth. The only one unphased, as per his usual, was Z9-31, who pushed forward his own asset and ordered it to the Synth Retention Bureau.

Despite their various wounds and roughed-up attire, X3-21 knew very well that plan _Telos_ had gone perfectly. None of them, or any Courser, could fail the Institute after all.

”Status report,” X3 asked, facing the five Coursers, his back rigid and his arms resting behind himself.

”Mission successful,” Z2-47 supplied first, despite his face wound. “Railroad safehouse _Switchboard_ was destroyed, and two assets recovered. However, three WHC’s escaped during the assault.”

“Escaped? You didn’t track them?” he asked, fighting down another urge to growl.

“Negative, sir,” Z6-06 supplied. “They used an old sewage tunnel. We only found their tracks after the assault.”

X3-21 glanced between them for a moment, his orange lenses scrutinizing the younger synths as he thought of how they would find the escaped Wicks. He wouldn’t be able to go after them personally, due to his infuriating leg injury, and Z2 seemed compromised from the gash across his left eye. X6-88 would be able to track them easier, although he was also injured during the mission. Yet, he wouldn’t dare send a Z-model Courser out in the field alone to track three WHC’s. They were all no older than three or so years, and had very little experience with lone assassinations. That left X6-88 and X4-18, at least of the X-models under his command. X4 was older than X6; more experienced.

“Then your mission was not successful,” he snapped. “X4-18, are you free to track down the last three WHC’s?”

“Negative,” X4 said instantly. “Ayo assigned me to patrols after plan _Telos_ was completed.” 

_X6 it was, then._

“I’ll have X6-88 take care of it. Z2-47, Z6-06, return to the SRB for assessments. X4-18, I assume there were no issues?”

“Negative. Railroad safehouse _Allen_ was destroyed with no issues.”

“Good.” At least X3 never had to worry about the X-models. “Z9-31, status?”

Z9-31’s brow twitched slightly as he regarded his superior with an air of indifference, then gestured vaguely at the synth next to him, Z3-09, who was still very much covered in mud and grime.

“Other than an unfortunate incident with a sinkhole and a Deathclaw, the mission was successful. All WHC’s eliminated, no assets within the vicinity, Railroad safehouse _Augusta_ obliterated,” he explained, then took particular notice of the blood covering X3-21. “Judging by your appearance, I assume you killed yet another asset?”

X3 felt his jaw clench slightly. Z9 was always a problem. He wasn’t that old, yet he acted as if he were the best acting Courser that the Institute had ever seen. Lately, it was beginning to become somewhat of a nuisance, although he knew there was no chance the younger, more cocky synth could never be able to best him in a fight, if it ever came to that. He just silently wished that an unfortunate accident would befall the upstart Courser, so that he would never have to resort to taking care of him himself.

“Affirmative,” X3-21 confirmed eventually, noticing a slight smirk flash across the Z-model’s face, which was quickly erased.

“Unfortunate. Ayo will not take that news lightly. Speaking of Ayo, shall we join the others at Synth Retention? It appears that you have a wound that needs tending to.”

  


  


As the rest of Coursers filed through the auto-sliding doors into the section of the Institute where all Coursers came and went, they were immediately met with grimaces by the scientists working there. It was often difficult to see blood-covered robots when you had little experience with the outside world yourself, and the Coats of the Institute never quite got used to the dirty work that their creations were often employed to carry out.

One of the white-coated scientists was addressing the party of synths in black ballistics, his rough face obviously creased in annoyance. Although it was often difficult, if not impossible, for Coursers to express any sort of emotion, they were specially attuned to understanding it on others’ faces. When your line of work, your entire existence, hindered on reading when someone would fight or flee, it was crucial that they could understand their quarry’s emotions and actions they would take before they took them. Split seconds out in the wasteland of the Commonwealth made the entirety of differences when it came to life and deactivation.

“Now that all of you are here, I want a status of all injuries,” the Institute scientist, Justin Ayo, was saying as he glowered at the synths.

“Minor laceration,” Z2-47 stated. His face was still steadily dripping blood. Head wounds always bled a lot.

“Shrapnel puncture,” X6-88 supplied for himself.

“Bullet wound,” X3-21 said. He was the last, despite everyones’ appearances, who had actually been injured.

“Of course two of the X’s are injured,” Ayo grumbled. “I’m shocked X4-18 is even alive.”

If the mentioned synth was at all affected by the comment, he didn’t show it, although X3-21 felt slightly miffed, even if it never came across his face in front of the Coat. His Coursers, in his twelve years of existence and four of commanding, had never once failed in their duties. The last time one of them had even been deactivated was his own mentor, X1-01, who was killed in an incident with an Assaultron. Those robots had a bad habit of being on-par with Coursers, although they lacked the ability to feel pain, which was somewhat of an advantage. Generally, if they could help it, the specially-trained synths avoided Assaultrons like a rabid mutt avoided water.

“You three,” Ayo gestured to the injured synths. “Report to Dr. Volkert. The rest of you, turn in your weapons and armor and await further instructions.”

With a chorus of ‘yes, sir’s, the Coursers went their separate ways after the three with injuries also turned over their weapons and armor to Z6-06 to be taken back to Advanced Systems, where they would be cleaned and repaired, if necessary. X6-88 walked in-step with his mentor as they made their way to the infirmary, which was just off to the side of the SRB. Z2-47 walked ahead of them, ignoring them and his own bloodied face completely.

“I told Ayo that I killed the asset,” X6 said in a low tone so that only X3 could hear. “He put me on Ground Patrols for the foreseeable future.”

X3-21 almost stopped walking, but forced himself to keep moving with only a slight stutter in his step. Was that synth malfunctioning? He knew very well that he hated being covered for, especially in asset-death-related matters. He shook his head, suppressing the urge to growl again.

“X6-88, that was unnecessary. I am capable of handling Ayo,” he practically hissed.

“I understand,” X6 replied mildly. “It will not happen again. If you do not kill another asset, that is.”

X3 scoffed slightly, “I believe, alive or dead, an asset must be attained no matter the situation. You could have told him it shot itself.”

“Twice in the chest? That is not a very probable form of suicide. In fact, it is about a 0.3% chance.”

“I’ve seen them do worse,” X3-21 stated grimly as they entered the infirmary, where Z2-47 was already being patched up. His face was bound in gauze and tape, immediately telling the other two Coursers that Volkert had opted not to use stitches on the wound. It would be a waste to use them on a Courser, as their advanced healing often fixed minor problems like lacerations within a day. Although, the lack of a cleanly closed injury would no-doubt leave a scar across Z2’s face, adding to his collection that each and every Courser had.

“Discard the bandages tomorrow morning,” The doctor instructed, then turned and noticed the other two, which made his brows tense. “Do either of you need stimpaks?”

“Negative,” X3-21 supplied.

“Good, I hate wasting them on you Coursers. Where are your injuries?”

“Shrapnel to the right shoulder-blade,” X6 said.

“Bullet wound in lower-left leg,” X3 told him.

The doctor immediately went about ordering the Coursers out of their clothing, which typically sat under their armor, until both of them stood in their underwear. Of course, the synths had no concept of public decency, yet they still wore clothing more for the sake of the scientists and their children that were all over the confines of the Institute. He took little time digging out the bit of lead from X6-88’s shoulder, unsympathetically using forceps with no form of local anesthetic. Once he was patched, he sent the Courser away and moved onto X3-21, noticing something about the wound immediately.

“Is there an exit wound?” Volkert asked as he prodded the hole in X3’s calf.

“Negative.”

"Of course there isn't. Crude wasteland weapons never leave clean wounds," the doctor grumbled and fished out the bullet from the synth’s leg, finishing his work in only minutes. “Stay off the leg for the night. You’re dismissed.”

"Yes, Dr. Volkert," he said when it was over, then went off to the armory for a moment to grab a clean, black synth uniform before dressing and returning to his room.

Unlike what most humans thought, all synths slept and ate as if they weren't artificially created. Coursers were the same, though through rigorous training of mind and body, they had adapted to need next to no sleep and little to no food or water. They were stronger, quicker, brighter than most synths and as cold as a dark night. No one dared mess with a Courser, even a wounded one.

X3-21 closed the door to his quarters and he almost fell into the clean white bed. It was quiet and cool, which soothed his annoyed temper. He wasn't tired, however, and instead stayed up for a while and listened to the unquiet noise of the Institute. The constant whirring of generators and buzzing of lights, and the foot traffic of synths and humans alike that never seemed to end. It was almost soothing in a way, to hear the usual noises and smell the artificial oxygen and flowers.

X3 sighed through his nose and didn't realize when he had finally fallen asleep until he was already long gone.


	3. Power Play

Several hushed voices nearby awoke X3-21 sometime in the middle of the night. It was about 2340, according to his internal clock, and the typical sounds of the underground had all but ceased, leaving only the hun of distant generators and the crystal clear voices of whoever had been speaking just outside the quarters.

"We will take care of it," a clearly Courser-sounding voice was saying. "Accidents happen in the wasteland."

"Good. I want it done tonight. And I don't want any fuck-ups. It's time the X-models were decommissioned permanently. They make too many damned mistakes."

X3 felt himself freeze as he began to rise as he recognized the voice of the head of the SRB, Justin Ayo, the man they had spoken to earlier. He held his breath, as if the slightest puff of air would be as loud as an atomic bomb exploding.

"All of the X-Models, sir?" The voice asked again. It was harder to place, but he soon realized that the voice belonged to Z9-31, the snide synth who continually caused problems for him and occasionally X6-88.

"No, that would look too suspicious. Only one for now," Ayo hissed.

"Which one, sir?" The voice of Z6-06 asked, making a chill pass through X3 briefly as he began to realize just how precarious this all was.

"X6-88. None of you will be able to deal with X3-21. That is a problem for another day.”

The Courser sucked in a shallow breath as he suddenly realized just what was about to happen. They were going to track down X6 and eliminate him during his Ground Patrols, possibly making it look like an unfortunate accident one way or another. He couldn’t allow them to harm the younger synth. Truthfully, for Coursers couldn’t lie, he couldn't comprehend the uneasy feeling that suddenly overcame him at the thought of finding X6-88 gone forever. He trained that synth from the moment he was created, making him who he was. And to suddenly have him killed for no reason, other than a strategic power play by the Coats who made them in the first place? It was nearly unfathomable.

"Copy, sir," Z9 said. "Where is X6-88 currently?"

"I sent him out on Ground Patrols near that Railroad building he and X3-21 were at earlier. Told him to burn it to the ground. It should be easy to be rid of him, what with a huge fire nearby," the scientist almost cackled, his voice twisted in sinister glee. "Once I report to the Director about the X-Model's multiple faults, they'll all be decommissioned. Then my nice, new Z-Models will run the SRB."

"Copy, sir. We'll take care of it."

X3-21 waited for several minutes as their steps faded into silence, then he stood and slipped away to the armory, keeping out of sight from the various janitorial synths that plodded around the Institute. For a moment he didn't even question his own actions as he found his cleaned and repaired armored coat and threw it over his body. He wasn't even given a mission, yet he was still going to the surface for a purpose, one that he made himself. What if the Institute found out he so blatantly broke his protocol? It would be the end of him. He would be shut down forever.

Just a blink of his eyes that he could never open again, sinking into an endless darkness.

X3-21 almost shivered, but instead grabbed a laser pistol without entering the withdrawal into the computer system, then quickly teleported himself into the wasteland with a shock of relaying electricity, knowing he would most likely never see the clean white walls of the Institute again. Though, right now wasn’t the time to contemplate his own life or existence; he had to act quickly for the sake of someone that wasn’t himself. If they reached X6-88 before him… The very thought almost made him sprint through the dilapidated city, yet he was careful to keep his steps measured and silent as he made his way passed every confused creature and crumbling structure.

What was the sudden feeling that consumed his entire being? _Anxiety?_

No, it was far more primal than that. It was _fear_. He was afraid of what he might find, and afraid of what the future held for him now. Had a Courser ever disobeyed their orders before now?

As he thought about it, he could recall one that had been active in his time: X9-68. She had been an excellent Courser, and uniquely cunning on her missions, yet there had been that one moment that changed her, that split second where her entire world had been shifted upside down. He witnessed it when she had cornered an asset, though the synth was cowering in front of a child. A young human that had no home or family, that had found shelter with the young rogue synth. They were both crying and pleading, and she had hesitated. X3-21 had been the one to pacify the synth with its recall code, and the wails that came from the child had given him a headache. He almost shot the human to silence it, but X9-68 suddenly lunged at his gun and took the laser round to the leg. She hadn't cried out or flinched, but merely looked at him with a depth in her eyes that had made him freeze. He'd never seen or known a Courser to have such emotion in a single look, and soon after that she had vanished from the Commonwealth, her body never even recovered, if she had died. He didn't know where she ended up, or if she had even gone anywhere. The rumor was that she had been deactivated, but X3 knew that she was far too clever for her own good. Killing that Courser would be like trying to swat at a gnat while blindfolded.

So he was suddenly and very deeply afraid of turning rogue and running from his entire world, though his face never changed. He was afraid of his inevitable deactivation. Afraid for X6-88's life and his own.

X3-21 saw the towering flames before he was even close, but he knew the Courser was smart enough to never stick around such an obvious signal. He would be hiding nearby, close but not far, probably in an alley or on top of a building. Z9-31 would know that.

He stopped a short distance away from the flames, held his fingers to his lips and whistled in a way that sounded similar to one of the wild birds that hung around the city. There were normally several of the beasts about, but they almost never thrilled at night, and in only a moment the call was answered with a similar one that sounded toward the east, just under a makeshift bridge that spanned an alleyway. X3-21 followed where the noise had come from, soon finding X6-88 in the shadowed darkness, just out of the line of light from the burning fire, leaving him perfectly concealed.

"X3--?" The Courser almost sputtered, confusion written on his usually blank features.

"Quiet," X3 hissed. "You have to return to the Institute immediately. Do not trust anyone there. Watch your back."

He saw the hesitation flash in X6’s blue eyes, yet something in his mentor's face made him listen, and with a quick nod he was gone in a flash of sparkling turquoise relay light, leaving only one Courser standing in the alleyway with his back to the towering inferno that had once been a Railroad safehouse. He might have been surprised by the quick compliance, if X6-88 was the kind of Courser to question his superior's authority. He was just silently thankful that the synth trusted his judgement enough not to question the situation or his strange actions, leaving X3 to quickly focus on his own impending doom.

With a quick look at the screen of his Cip-Boy, he saw that there were four nearby black blips moving toward his location; four Coursers that were coming to kill what they thought was their intended target.

X3-21 thumbed the safety off on his laser pistol, listening to the soft whine of the charge activating, then took aim into the darkness that only had flashes of orange light touching the fringes every so often. The flickering light of the fire was almost disorienting the way it danced and bounced in his eyes, but he inhaled a deep breath and exhaled it slowly, focusing his full attention on everything around him except the fire. The distant chirping of insects, followed by an echoing bark of some irradiated wasteland mutt, then finally the scuff of many boots walking over gravel with the suppressed breaths of the four hunters after their quarry.

Things seemed to move quickly after that. When the first Courser came into his sights, he didn't hesitate to fire off three quick rounds in its direction, however the specially-made coats easily reflected the rounds as if they had been nothing more than a mere inconvenience. The Courser, which was Z3-09, looked momentarily taken aback before he took the butt of the laser pistol in the jaw, sending him crashing to the ground. The next two easily adapted to their new target, and instead of shooting useless energy rounds at him, both lunged and grabbed X3, attempting to pin him down.

X3-21 anticipated that action, ducking under Z6-06 and catching Z2-47 in the knee with his boot, which made him stumble momentarily, opening up the chance for their target to kick him to the ground. With Z2 out of the way for a second, he spun back around and fired two rounds into Z6's leg, also sending him unceremoniously to the ground.

Suddenly, two loud bangs reverberated in his ears as something struck his back with such force that he was knocked flat, the wind rushing out of his lungs in a strained gasp. X3 didn’t even register what had happened before he was hauled to his feet and his arms wrenched painfully behind his back to face Z9-31, who was holding a pitch-black shotgun in his hands, a weapon modified from one he’d evidently obtained in the wastes somewhere. The other three Coursers were holding him fast, stretching his ligaments and joints so far that he thought they might tear and pop at any moment.

"X3-21," Z9-31 said as he pumped the shotgun, and stowed it away in a holster on his back. "I would say I'm surprised to see you, but that would be a lie. And you understand that we can never tell lies, yes?"

X3 simply stared at him with his cold, unfeeling orange lenses, his brow tense and his arms uselessly pinned. He was at their mercy, or lack thereof, but he wasn't going to let them see just how afraid he had become. What would it be like to be decommissioned? Would it just be an endless night? _Nothing?_

"I'm sure you do," the Courser continued and took a moment to look carefully around at his surroundings. He seemed to be looking for something in particular, but what? X3-21 couldn't hope to even try to figure out what was going through his malicious mind.

"I can also see that you know why we were sent here. I'm almost _glad_ that you found out. We have no real quarrel with X6-88," he practically purred, then seemed to find what he was looking for as he picked up a very heavy-looking lead pipe stained with rust.

"You, on the other hand… you have been nothing but a nuisance. The greatest Courser to come out of the Institute. The greatest thorn in my side for years. We have constantly been passed over for missions all because of you."

X3 felt a chill crawl up his spine as he saw Z9 test the weight of the pipe in his hand, then look at him with cold indifference, his heterochromic eyes lacking any flicker of emotion other than a sheer emptiness and a spark of hate.

"So kill me," the pinned Courser challenged. "But you _will not_ touch X6-88."

Z9-31 frowned slightly, glanced at his companions, then looked back at him and nodded once, understanding the request.

"Very well," he said, raised the pipe over his head, then suddenly swung it down and plunged X3-21's world into complete darkness.


	4. An Ancient Tome

Ash gently floated from the pink-orange morning sky, covering everything around the collapsed building in a haze of grey and black. The wind was blowing gently, sending flurries of the sooty powder running through the torn up streets, as if warning anything and everything nearby that no one dared go against the Institute. Not even their own synths were safe, let alone their elite force of Coursers. One of which was splayed out in an alleyway close to the remnants of the old Railroad safehouse, covered in a dusting of ash that caked to the long congealed blood spattering his head and back.

X3-21 flicked his eyes open in a daze, taking a moment for his vision to focus enough to see the hazy view of his hand in front of his face. His body ached all over, but those pains were nothing compared to the splitting headache that reverberated through his bloodied skull, as if it had been blasted with a mini-nuke. He might have been shocked that he was still alive, if his mind wasn't so acutely aware of how much he hurt everywhere. On top of the realization of his particularly grim situation, he remembered absolutely nothing after returning to the Institute and retiring to his quarters for the night. Now, he was laying exposed on the surface, bloodied and beaten by an unknown assailant, half-dead and hurting more than he ever had known. Even his numerous bodily beatings at the hands of his mentor, X1-01, to numb his mind to every pain imaginable didn’t compare to this moment.

The Courser slowly, shakily dragged himself to his feet, stumbling and wobbling where he stood, desperate for the pain in his head to subside. His hand slid for a moment where he’d steadied himself on the alley wall, leaving a dark smear of his own blood along the crumbling concrete structure, as he brought his other arm up to touch his head. When he did, he noticed that his Cip-Boy had been damaged, and his wrist and hand felt broken along with it. Taking the device off, he dropped it to the ground and broke it completely, stepping on it a few times.

_I can't return to the Institute_ , he told himself silently. Why? He couldn't quite place the reason, other than he knew he would be shut down forever if he went back. Coursers couldn't fail their duties, and some way or other, he failed them possibly worse than any other Courser had. It probably would have been much easier to simply let himself be deactivated forever.

X3-21 took a moment to look around and get his bearings. The sun was steadily rising in front of him, toward where the Institute was hiding, which was easterly. So he turned away from it and began walking the other way, where the stars were still twinkling in the dark blue sky of the early morning. At least, until his foot struck something small and sent it skittering a few feet away.

Suddenly drawn to whatever it was, he slowly made his way toward it, picked it up, and shook the ash out of it, revealing a book with brightly colored, blocky letters across the front. It looked as if it had been for children, but X3-21 had no concept of childhood, so he flipped it open and realized it was about the creatures that had inhabited the world before the Great War, which had turned everything into an irradiated wasteland. Why had the book suddenly fascinated him? He would have never even given the scraps of paper a second thought normally. Long ago, when he had gone through rigorous training, he'd been given a code to follow. As he lay panting from several hours of sprinting on a treadmill, or endured beatings and psychological torture, they would tell him those rules, that code.

_You serve the Institute. You are Institute property._

As his body begged for water after having been deprived of it for days, they would speak those words. His throat burning through to his stomach, dry as the wasteland above them.

_You do not lie. You do not steal. You do not feel._

As hunger gnawed his stomach, threatening to make him pass out cold, the mantra running through every fiber of his being.

_You do not disobey orders._

As he endured agonizing injections, his muscles on fire as if they would roast him alive, those words, always those words, bouncing through his skull.

_You are a hunter._

As he was beaten for hours, days, weeks, numbing his body to pain, they would let him know what he was. Exactly what he was.

He was X3-21, a synthetic human being.

_You are a Courser._

So, why did the book he now held make him suddenly very aware of how utterly _wrong_ they had been? He was born as a slave and content to be one forever, except everything suddenly changed within the span of a day, leaving him alone, injured, and almost _scared._ That alien emotion that he’d never felt before now as his world balanced on the precipice of life and death, tottering as badly as his own body was as he struggled to remain standing.

He shook his head painfully and began sifting through the pages of the book, with its blocky lettering and brightly colored pictures that seemed to jump out of the pages at him.

_Sea otter. Thick fur keeps otters warm in cold water,_ the book read, next to a photo of a long, wet creature with a bristly face and large, dark eyes. It was holding a flat shell of some kind, floating on its back in bright, clear water.

He flipped a few pages, suddenly lost in the pictures and completely unaware of his surroundings.

_Cheetah. The fastest animal on earth!_ The page was occupied by a sleek golden feline covered in dark black spots, its body stretched in a full stride as it chased down its prey. He'd never seen or heard of such creatures before in his short life. Had they really existed at one point, or were the pages of the book merely colorful lies?

_Lion. Lions live in large families called prides._ These creatures were large, powerful, imposing. The felines were bunched together on the opposite page, looming, threatening, their bodies so fully muscled and rippling under golden hides. No doubt they had been dangerous, and obviously prideful, as the book had explained. In a way, it reminded him of the large faction he knew as the Brotherhood of Steel, how they were only intimidating in a group, showing all of their force at once. Yet, there were always more dangerous things, like parasites, that no one could hope to see, yet caused devastation.

He flipped the page again, unknowingly smearing some blood onto the last page he'd been on.

_Tiger. These cats live alone and use their stripes as camouflage._ This new feline was stealthy, half-hidden in the brush, waiting to strike and destroy as its elegant black stripes marked through the intense tawny of its body. The watchful nature of its yellow orbs drew him to look at them, as if the beast were hypnotizing him into a lull of safety and security, before it would lunge and kill. This one was like the Institute, at least to him. A hidden force, powerful through subtlety, dangerous with subterfuge, never showing its full body until the moment it would be too late for whatever it had sunk its teeth and claws into. Had he really been fooled for so long by those dangerous, hypnotic eyes and that striped body cut like long blades of grass?

This time, he flipped several pages back, shaking his head once more when his eyes stung with blood.

_Bear. Bears sleep through the winter and have 4-inch claws!_ It was almost comical in a way, how it looked so large and lumbering, as if it were a brown, furry bush. It couldn't hope to cause damage, looking like it was, yet the claws and teeth on it were rather large. If it chose to, it could probably rip through anything it so pleased. Actually, it looked strikingly similar to a Yao Gui, which roamed the outskirts of the Commonwealth and made their dens in old bunkers or various caves. It was shocking, how unassuming these creatures seemed, terrifying yet nothing like the sleek felines a few pages ago.

Almost like the Railroad, how they never appeared to be as dangerous as they really were.

X3-21 frowned and shook more ash from between the sheets of paper, then turned to a random page when he flipped it back upright.

_Hawk. Hawks are fierce hunters!_ This creature was avian, flying through the air on large feathery wings, colored like the forgotten wasteland sand. One of them was frozen, swooping down, its clawed feet craning toward a small brown creature with a long, thin tail, prepared to utterly destroy the life before it with no remorse. Its eyes burned so dangerously, focusing on its prey so intently that he knew it would have no issue utterly destroying everything it came against. They were clearly the orange eyes of a cold-blooded killer that had been trained from birth to end the lives of others.

No matter how much he tried to push the sudden notion aside, the only thing this animal reminded him of was himself. The way the eyes glinted hungrily, so perfectly ochre and black, as it closed in on the small, innocent creature, and the long blades from its feet that were the weapons of such destruction. It didn't seem to care what got in its way, as long as it lived and did as it pleased. It was free, answering to no one but its own instincts and hunger.

X3 snapped the book closed, tucking it away within a secret pouch inside his armored coat before realizing just how much blood was covering his body, staining his hands and clothes. Most of it had been from his head no doubt, since head wounds always bled so much, but it was still far too much for his liking. Although his kind didn’t suffer the usual symptoms of losing copious amounts of blood, he still needed it inside his body, not out of it. Actually, he noticed finally, the amount around him looked similar to the stains left when he killed a WHC or accidentally shot an asset. No one had survived losing this much blood. Was he actually dead? Had he been wrong in thinking deactivation meant endless dark? Was it simply just living without really living?

Just as he realized his situation, his body also seemed to register that it shouldn't actually be mobile, and he all but collapsed in a heap in the ash surrounding the burnt-out husk of the Railroad safehouse once known as _Herkimer_. His world went into the blissful blackness of a painless sleep so deep that he did not hear the pair of footsteps approaching him, nor did he feel the hands that took his broken body away.


	5. Unlikely Saviors

A sudden, gripping panic awoke X3-21 into a dimly lit room, his body burning fiercely in pain when he attempted to sit up and find his bearings. He didn’t know the source of such an alien emotion, this sudden terror, however he was aware that someone was touching him and that his head felt like it had been crushed by the boot of a Super Mutant. The awareness and pain was so intense, that for several seconds he couldn’t even see anything past the flashes of lights in his vision. Had his eyes been damaged, too, or was it that they never really worked properly in the first place?

A hand pressing into his chest held him down, which finally made his eyes focus on the person who was standing above him. He had an urge to leap at her and cut her throat, however he quickly realized that he was naked from the waist up and he had no weapons to speak of, let alone the cognitive ability to even manage getting up right now.

"Hey, hey, relax. Calm down, alright? I'm not going to hurt you," the woman said, keeping her hand firmly on his chest while her other held a bloodied, damp rag.

_Then why does my head hurt?_ He wanted to say, yet he kept quiet as he settled back down and decided to stare at the ceiling to think about how exactly he ended up where he was. He remembered very little from the last day...had it been a day? Regardless, his memory was severely damaged from whatever had happened, and all he knew was that the Institute didn't want him anymore, which he was oddly fine with. The confines of his tiny room, the gentle hum of generators and the smell of fake flowers. That was the last thing in his mind. Being content inside the Institute. How had he even found himself on the surface to be beaten and taken in by this strange woman whom he didn’t know?

He felt the cool rag return to his wounds, bringing him back into his immediate surroundings. A yellow lantern was flickering slightly above him, but beyond that it was difficult to see. Somewhere beyond the room he sensed he was in, he heard the muffled voices of a small number of people, speaking so unlike the Coats in the Institute. It didn’t sound like a horde of people, but rather only about five or six, which would normally be no match for a Courser if he wasn’t so gravely injured.

Closing his eyes, X3 felt the damp scrap of cloth wiping at his lacerations, which was quickly beginning to make his head feel better than it had been. He took a moment to conduct a brief assessment of his body, finding that there had been significant damage to his skull and ribs, that his right wrist was fractured slightly along the ulna bone, but other than the obvious injuries he was fine. He also sensed that, despite the broken ribs, none of his vital organs had been punctured by anything. There was no internal bleeding or even really any bruising that he could tell. It was as if they targeted his head for a reason, to make sure he never woke up, or if he _had_ woken up, that he wouldn’t be able to remember anything.

The sudden notion made him frown in thought. Why had he been _beaten?_ Why had he _allowed_ himself to be beaten in such a way? He would have fought back against his attacker or attackers and no doubt he would have won if they attempted to grab him. No one and nothing had ever caught him unawares while he was out in the field. A Super Mutant would have made sure there was nothing left of him to be found, a Deathclaw would have left deep gashes and bites, not bludgeons, and raiders would have shot him full of holes from their hand-crafted wastelander weapons that more often than not left no exit wounds. What could have, or would have, even been able to get close enough to him to strike his head this many times?

Thinking about it left him feeling very disturbed.

"I'm surprised you're alive. The doctor said you shouldn't be," the woman was saying as she methodically cleaned all of his blackened gashes. The ones to his head weren't deep, but they were bloody and bruised and numerous, swelling in places where he could feel the rag brush against lightly. "He'll be back in a second. He had to get some medical supplies to fix you up."

X3-21 opened his eyes again and finally took real notice of the woman. She had dark skin and silver hair that was parted to the side and her sleeves were rolled back to show scars along her arms and thick muscle across her body. He wondered for a second if she had been the one to beat him senseless, but that didn't make much sense to him. She wouldn't be helping him now if she had caused his injuries in the first place, at least it wasn’t very likely.

"You’re actually lucky," she said after a quiet moment. “We didn’t have a doctor here before last night.”

He ignored her and began looking slowly around the room he was stuck in. The walls were made of faded red brick, with the ceiling dominated by dirt and roots from dead plants, filling his senses with such a heavy atmosphere that he instantly understood that he was underground somewhere. His internal clock told him it was about noon, but wherever they were it was nice and cool, almost calming in a way as the closed in area reminded him of his own room within the Institute. Was the word that jumped to his mind called _irony?_ That the place that had enslaved him only brought him comfort? The cold rag gently brushing against his burning hurts was even soothing, which eventually made his body loosen up slightly as he tried to forget what he could about the place that he could never see again, that had used him as a tool for twelve gruelling years.

X3 flexed his aching hand, then decided to lift his arm to look at it closer. The skin along his forearm was bruised, matching a similar one on his upper arm that almost made him shiver. With his free hand, he gripped the bruise slightly, then pulled it away, finding the shape far too familiar. Bruises shaped like handprints, holding him down… 

His thoughts snapped back to his uncertain reality as he heard an iron gate click and groan open nearby, squeaking as it was closed again right after as a man appeared in his field of vision. He was carrying a bag with him, his rounded face was creased in a scowl, slitting his slanted eyes more than was probably normal.

"I shouldn't have to waste my limited supplies on a Courser, Glory," the man, evidently the doctor of this place, said and knelt down next to his clearly unwanted patient. The way he spoke almost reminded X3 of the doctor in the Institute, though his name suddenly escaped him at the moment. He didn't like this man who reminded him so much of the doctor who never once stitched or stimmed one of his wounds.

"Well, you're going to. He could have useful information. And I've never seen one this beat to Hell," the woman, Glory, deplored. "At least, not one alive, that is."

"It was near Herkimer. We still haven’t found any survivors from there, if there are any. What if it was the one that burned it down?" The doctor asked as he began examining the Courser, his frown deepening with every exploratory prod.

X3-21's brows came together slightly. That name was suddenly familiar. _Herkimer._

The flashing image of flickering flames and seeing X6-88 in the alleyway he awoke in invaded his head, leaving him more confused than before. What did X6-88 have to do with any of this? He wasn't the one that hurt him, he was sure of that. X6 wasn't that strong and he certainly wasn't so stupid as to directly challenge his superior, his own mentor, even. He could easily kill the younger synth without a second thought if they had ever had an ounce of animosity toward one another, which they didn’t.

Yet, if he wasn't the one that did this, who was? Who had he allowed to grab him and pin him down and beat in his skull so that his memories were as broken as his bones?

"And got beat up for it? I don't know what's going on, but _he_ might. So we'd better help him," Glory snapped.

The man grumbled but silenced himself as he focused on his grisly inspection of the Courser’s skull, down to his arms, then finally to his leg where he still had a relatively fresh bullet wound. The hole in his calf was still open, which still ached, reminding him that an escaped asset had done that to him in that labyrinthian warehouse.

_Herkimer_. That’s right. He and X6 had invaded that Railroad safehouse, killed everyone within and recovered the two assets that had escaped their pristine underground confines. He knew that much, at least. After their mission, everyone returned to the Institute, and he eventually retired to his room and into his bed. After that? Nothing. Darkness. Pain.

Maybe he had actually died, if only for a moment?

"I still think it shouldn't even be alive. Its skull is fractured in six places," the doctor finally muttered, frowning even deeper.

_Six skull fractures?_ X3 thought, bewildered. That would explain why his head was hurting so bad, but it still didn't answer all of his questions. Of course, he knew it had been broken somehow, but six times? Courser or no, there should have been fatal damage to his brain. However, that solved some minor mysteries for him as he came to realize that his skull fractures would explain the memory loss. Knowing that his head had been beaten so severely, he understood that he might never fully remember anything hours before and after the incident, although that might have been a small mercy, even if it was a frustratingly infuriating one.

"Damn. He probably doesn't even remember who he is," Glory lamented, her face falling into sympathy. At least, X3 figured that’s what it was. He’d never seen it on someone’s face, especially not directed toward himself before this very moment.

"Courser, designation X3-21," he heard himself suddenly supply, then realized just how dry his throat was. It had been a while since he sounded in so much pain. It was pathetic. He hadn’t even intended to tell these people who he was, yet the words seemed to fall out of him without his control. What was wrong with him? Was his mind really that damaged?

The two people above him exchanged a look before the doctor merely shook his head and began binding the synth’s wounds, wrapping his head in gauze and linens and tying up his broken wrist with a splint. Just feeling the cool, soft wrap pressing into his broken bones made the pain begin to fade into a dull ache that he could more-easily shove to the back of his mind.

"Glory, I know what you're thinking,” the man sighed. “But you _cannot_ change a Courser. They're different from your kind. They're all better off dead."


	6. A Name?

Sometime the next day, X3-21 awoke from another pain and drug-induced sleep that he had no memory of falling into. His head still pounded as he dragged himself from the cot he had been on, but he could already tell that his advanced genetics were already healing his wounds and fractures at a remarkable rate. He would probably be fine in a week or so, even if his memory never fully recovered.

He found that food and water had been placed on a nearby nightstand, which he almost hesitated to consume if he hadn't been so terribly hungry and thirsty. Once he'd eaten, he became painfully alert and restless as he began to notice just how small his cell was. True, in the Institute, his room had been about the same size, although lacking iron bars and crumbling brick walls and dirt.

Here he couldn't simply just leave and return of his own free will, although had he ever really had that in the first place? The Coats underground only wanted to use him and his kind for their own gain, not caring an ounce about anything other than his performance in the field. Did they not care what synths and Coursers felt, what they heard?

_Stupid synth, damned Courser, just a robot._

Those bygone passing comments suddenly made his skin crawl and his blood boil. He _hated_ them for everything they ever did to him. Everything they did to all of their 'property'. One slip-up and your entire consciousness was stripped away on a whim, turning you back into a mindless slave that had no other thoughts than 'do not fail'. And why shouldn't they fail, every Courser thinks, and remembers that failure meant being shut down and reset over and over until you were permanently decommissioned. Blackness, nothing...

"I've never seen a Courser look so pissed off before," Glory's voice from the other side of the iron bars suddenly said, startling him out of his darkened thoughts. He looked up and saw her leaning there, watching him intently, her usually gentle features creased in concern.

His mouth twitched slightly and he forced himself to look passive once more, as showing emotion wasn't the mark of a Courser. You must never cry out in pain, nor look any different than a ruthless killing machine, void of emotions, hell-bent on utter destruction and mayhem. Almost like that creature from the book he had found; a _hawk_. The one thing that reflected eyes just like his own. Cold and indifferent, focused and intent on the kill, the prey, not even blinking as it destroyed and drew blood and cries from its victims.

X3-21 suddenly realized that he actually remembered grabbing that book out of the rubble of _Herkimer_ and stowing it away within his armored coat. The coat that was now in the hands of these people, the Railroad, as he had come to understand.

Was it a joke, or simply more of that irony thing that plagued his newfound existence? How many Railroad agents had he killed, how many assets did he capture and watch have their minds stripped away? Were any of the numerous bodies that had fallen prey to his talons acquainted with these scant few survivors of plan _Telos_ , the armageddon, the beginning of the end? These humans and synths had every reason to simply let him die in that forgotten alleyway, yet they took him into their den and healed his wounds. He knew that he deserved no such kindness from the Railroad, which left the only option of their ulterior motive of getting as much information out of him as they could. What information did he even have left? Ever since that night…

"Also, you shouldn't be up. You're still hurt," Glory pointed out, cutting harshly into his thoughts once more.

"My injuries are superficial," was all he said on the matter.

The synth suddenly barked out a laugh, although she looked more concerned than anything else. She shook her head, saying, "superficial? Your skull is busted up. Someone hit you hard enough to want you dead. You really shouldn't even be breathing right now, let alone standing and talking."

X3-21 hesitated to speak as he quickly thought about her statement. True, there were several people that wanted his kind, and him specifically, dead and gone. But that would only require a quick bullet to the head, not a severe beating. A human wouldn't be able to get close enough to him. A synth wouldn't try. The only option he'd come to was that a Courser, or, more likely, _Coursers_ , had somehow, for some reason, pinned him down and beat him senseless. Actually, the probability of that being the case was in the upper 80% range, which left him feeling slightly disturbed once again about the subject.

"The fractures are irrelevant. Once I'm well, I demand to be released," he ordered.

"Well, that just depends on how much you're willing to cooperate," she said with a sly smirk. "Or if Dez wants you dead or not."

He almost frowned, but instead merely glowered at her and squared his shoulders.

"The Institute will lay all of you to waste if you do not release me," he lied, and shoved the notion aside that he actually _could_ lie. He'd never done it before, had he? "They will no doubt want their most valued Courser back."

Glory seemed to think about that for a moment, her face falling as she smiled in a seemingly sad way, crossing her arms through the bars on the cell door, not at all concerned that they were within an arm's reach of each other.

"X3-21, I'm sure if they _really_ wanted you that badly, you would be back home and we would be dead. Am I right?"

He stayed quiet until finally looking away, suddenly feeling really annoyed and tired. His head kept throbbing painfully, which wasn't helped by talking and walking about, thinking of his impending doom at the hands of the Railroad or the Institute. He even had part of a fractured jaw, which the doctor hadn't noticed previously. He only knew it was cracked because he could feel one of his molars was loose in the back where it had been broken in half. That, and it hurt whenever he talked or ate.

"Hey, I have a question. I know Coursers aren't usually the deviating type, but if you could have any name in the world, what would it be?" She asked suddenly.

"A name?" He uttered, looking back at her, brows coming together slightly.

"Yeah. My name is Glory. We have Dez and Deacon. Haven't you thought of having a name? Not just numbers and X's and Z's or whatever?"

He blinked for a moment and looked truly confused about the question posed to him. He really hadn't ever thought about being anything other than X3-21 even though it was the mark of being property. The series of numbers given to him on the day he was made, by the people who only saw him as a thing, a tool to be used and abused.

X3-21, the twenty-first Synth created in March, model-X, designed for tactical Courser use.

How could he be anything else?

"I guess you don't have to answer. I know the doc thinks you can't change, but I think everyone deserves a chance. Did you need anything, by the way? Food, water, pain meds?" She asked, changing the subject.

He hesitated for a moment--had he ever hesitated?--then nodded once.

"There is something in the left interior pocket of my ballistic coat that I want," he said at last.

Glory smiled at him, then agreed to grab it, walking off somewhere out of his sight. The notion came to him in that moment that he'd never actually had anyone smile at him before. Humans often did to each other, but never had he seen it done synth-to-synth, especially synth-to-Courser. His kind only hunted her kind down like vermin, killing some and pacifying others. He even thought of that asset he'd seen…

Where had he seen her? It was a dark place, he was standing there, her face was stained with tears and splotched with red. She wanted nothing more than to live and be free, yet he snuffed out her life before it had truly begun. And the other one that shot his leg. He'd killed him.

_Herkimer_. That name again. The Railroad safehouse. Of course he'd seen those two assets inside that warehouse, just after decimating the herd of Railroad innocents, the Wicks, as they called them. He'd taken the two assets back to the Institute with X6-88 hauling a third, and his faithful lackey had taken the blame for the death of the one that had shot his leg.

As he touched his leg, he wondered if the one he'd killed had been the lucky one in that situation. After seeing their commander and the doctor, there was nothing. Frustratingly nothing.

Glory came back after only a few minutes, holding the small, colorful book that he'd found after his incident. He at least remembered that part. Picking up the book, despite being bloodied, and reading through it as if his head hadn't just been gashed open and ground to a pulp. Why could he remember that, yet be unaware of how he even managed to find himself back at the safehouse in the first place?

The more he thought about it, the more frustrated he found himself.

"Where did you get a kid's book?" The synth asked as she passed it through the bars to him.

"I found it," he told her as he took it and carefully tucked it away in his pocket, then lied, "I'm not sure where."

"So, you really don't know how you ended up halfway dead in a back alley?"

He frowned, then shook his head, uttering a quick, "no."

"Well, we'll figure it out. Don't worry too much about it," she said, then idly waved at where he stashed the book. "I didn't know Coursers would bother to read. Especially kid books."

"We don't," he grumbled, hoping she would understand that he didn't want to talk about it.

Taking the hint, Glory nodded knowingly before leaning back away from the bars of the cell, giving another smile as she did. She mentioned something offhandedly about a supply run, wished him well, and promised to bring back a hot meal when she returned. As her footsteps faded into the background noise of the underground dwelling, X3-21 laid back in the cot, slipped the book out of his pocket and flipped it open.

"A name?" He wondered out loud, turning the pages of his precious little book until he found the page he sought. The animals were still there behind every leaf of paper he flipped. The letters by each picture were still blocky and sickeningly, wonderfully colorful, untouched by countless years of radiation and war. There, he found, the hawk's ochre eyes still only shone his own orange lenses back at him.


End file.
